


Eggnog and mistletoe (a mysterious connection)

by beechee



Series: Dishonor on you, Dishonor on your cow (Dunwall drudgery) [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: DECFANFIC, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2707748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beechee/pseuds/beechee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High Overseer Campbell highjacks what's supposed to be a very interesting night; the Empress and her Lord Protector don't stand for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eggnog and mistletoe (a mysterious connection)

The Lord Protector is going to swear off rum for the rest of his life if he makes it through tonight. He's not even fond of it, really, but with the festive season on the horizon and eggnog the only drink available at the night's ball, it's the only drink around. 

Empress Jessamine Kaldwin has spent the entire night playing an intricate game of hide-and-go-seek tag with the bunches of mistletoe hung around the ballroom, and every time she is nearly apprehended by an overly attentive noble, he's got to remind himself that his job does not in fact include murdering the entirety of Her Majesty's court. 

Even if they do deserve it. 

On its own, that wouldn't be enough to drive him to drink, not really. He's accustomed to men looking at the Empress. She's gorgeous; it only makes sense. Even if she wasn't, the crown would have been enough to outweigh it--the fact that she is both the Empress and unspeakably beautiful, well. It means that Corvo spends a great amount of his time on duty watching men watch her. It's the way she keeps  _looking at him_  that drives the matter past the ordinary and into the infuriating. She'll linger under a bunching while any who catch sight of her gravitate over, and she won't move until she makes eye contact. 

He doesn't like to think of himself as a jealous man--everything that he is, everything that he has been trained to become, runs against jealousy. His needs secondary to hers, his wants suspended for hers; the problem is,  _she_  seems to want him to be a jealous man. 

He should be honoured that she trusts him enough to tease him, what with the way the court mutters about his  _temperament,_  like being born Serkonan means that he has no self control, or is perhaps an axe murderer--he should be glad that she does not listen to those whispers, but honestly. It's hard enough doing his job with hundreds of nobility milling about, forget about through Jessamine's best attempts at flustering him.

(That's a lie. He's honoured and amused and warmed deep in his chest by the promise he sees in her eyes, but this is yet another game they play, Corvo in the role of easily irritated bodyguard, Jessamine in the role of overly flirtatious charge, and both of them looking forward to when she can melt the irritation straight out of his mind, but it's hardly a convincing lie if he admits its falsity to himself.)

So; retreat into orderly sips from a mug full of eggnog, taken judiciously as he quick steps his way around the perimeter of the room, consistently on guard for any threat to the Empress' wellbeing. And any further attempts at this game of hers--he'd studiously avoided looking for nearly twenty seconds after he'd caught sight of her in his peripheries, and she'd barely avoided a rather unctuous young man; he doesn't plan to leave her to that fate again. 

Another sip of eggnog when he catches High Overseer Campbell's disapproving stare at where Jessamine listens quietly to one of the ladies of the court, one further when she turns to glide smoothly over to the High Overseer, and he doesn't even miss a step in his march. Quietly, he diverts to one of the guards manning the entrances and exits, murmurs a soft command regarding a few of the more.. unsavoury guests, then slips across the hall floor to stand sentinel at Jessamine's shoulder.

The High Overseer leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and he'd rather not leave his charge alone in his presence if it can be avoided.

They are discussing the Abbey's cessation of regular services with the worsening of what the court has started calling the rat plague, Jessamine with enough fire in her voice to inspire entire battalions of men to die on a battlefield for her, Campbell cool and detached. It's a struggle not to allow his professional mask to detach, a struggle not to murmur advice that the Empress hasn't asked for and doesn't need into her ear, and he has to take a moment to remind himself that for all he has soaked up the attitudes and thoughts of the court like a sponge, he was not born to its ways as she. She argues for the emotional security of her citizens, Campbell counters easily that perhaps her citizens have become  _too_  secure, and forgotten to keep to the Strictures that protect against the evil of the Outsider, and his influence. 

Very, very carefully, he turns and sets his mug down on the tray of a passing servant, clasps his hands behind his back, and stares at a point over Campbell's shoulder, choosing not to linger on what the High Overseer has just implicitly accused the Empress of. He has tuned out the words passing between the two, but he would recognize Jessamine's farewell tones in his sleep, he thinks, and he pivots to remain at her side when she walks away as though she'd commanded it. 

She walks straight for the door and does not pause even for Watch Commander Curnow, leaving Corvo to communicate their apologies by clasping his shoulder as they pass, murmuring "We'll speak later," before picking up his pace to avoid being left behind.

She's climbing the stairs already by the time Corvo catches up, skirts lifted just enough to ensure she won't trip over them. There are a million and one places she could be going, but he thinks he knows her destination long before his suspicions are confirmed; she goes for their habitual hiding place, a secret room kept well-stocked with both brandy and cigars, a place to which they retreat when the stresses of ruling an empire threaten to bow her shoulders years before their time. It's where she indulges her habit of smoking, the only place she will be seen doing so. 

She pauses a few feet before the door, glances up and down the corridor before she plants a hand dead center on his chest. It stops him effortlessly, the way she always does, and he meets her gaze with a question clear in his eyes.

"That..." she starts. "Wasn't how I intended to leave." He cocks his head slightly and her laughter is far from unkind; it is simply tired. She takes a step back, triggers the mechanism that opens the hidden door, and smiles when his eyes are pulled to the sprig of mistletoe dangling from the doorframe. 

She takes a step backward and he follows like she's magnetic, raising a hand to cup the side of her face, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Distract me from it?" the Empress asks, and her Lord Protector wastes no time in doing just that. 


End file.
